The man beside Francesca coughed loudly and nudged her elbow off the armrest. "Excuse me; sorry," he mumbled as he settled into the stiff, blue cushioned seat beside her.
"Sure, my arm wasn't there," she mumbled to the middle-aged, overweight man in a suit. Angry rap pumped from his headphones. Either he was deaf or in pain.
Lights dimmed, and cold, plastic air burst through tentacle vents overhead. Francesca wanted to sleep through as many of the nineteen hours that lay ahead of her as humanly possible.
Her second therapist had been a psychiatrist, so he thought pills were better than talking. The useless three sessions had begun the same, but he'd given her Eszopiclone for her nightmares.
After she had filled the prescription, she'd never seen Dr. You-Have-Twelve-Disorders again. She had a few chalky white pills left; they still resided in a small clamshell box in her purse. Due to the fact she wouldn't have to get off the plane for any stops it made, she almost took one. But a look around at the passengers had her thinking better of it. Earbuds would have to do. Francesca got uncomfortable, and the plane took off.
An unhappy baby screamed as her ears popped.
"Please remain seated–" A squeaky drawl droned over a crackling system. "Until the seatbelt light–"
Francesca had picked a winner of a flight. Only fifteen feet away from the attendant and her walky-talky couldn't project her voice seven rows back.
Why had she agreed to go to Italy again? She'd stopped crying publicly altogether. No one needed to know about the nights. Or God, the mornings. Eventually, she would be able to function an entire day without crying at all; she would work on saving it all for the nights. Those may be bad forever.
Before she knew it, a woman made her way down the cramped aisle with a little metal cart, squeezing a release handle to make it roll. It was reminiscent of the horrible wheelchairs some hospitals have that discourage anyone from actually using them; they basically have a sign which reads, 'Use at your own risk. Pusher may break fingers, and rider may end up with a spinal cord injury'.
"Water? Coffee? Coke? Orange Juice? A little something extra?"
The flight attendant's muddled brown eyes filled with a combination of pity and worry. A dare lived behind it. 'I dare you to get drunk at 8:30 in the morning. Be that person.'
Francesca slid her earbuds out. Her throat felt rawer than usual as she croaked, "Water, coffee, and do you have Irish cream?" She didn't want it, but ruffling feathers sounded entertaining.
"Yes, uh, one second. I have to–" The harried woman scrambled back to the curtained area of the plane. When she came back, frazzled with a side of irritated, she held the bottle with a look of distaste. "Sorry, I forgot to restock the cart. I usually do that before dinner."
Jab noted.
"Cream? Sugar?" Dishwater blonde hair was pulled up in a frizzy bun. Last night must have been a rough one for her too–only she'd probably had more fun.
Could she have more questions?
"Extra napkins?"
Of course.
"Cream and extra napkins would be great, thanks." Francesca hoped she sounded pleasant; she didn't feel pleasant.
A bit of black covered the woman's canine tooth. Whether food or decay, Francesca didn't comment on it.
"A'course darling. Let me know if you need anything else." The fake smile revealed two other places where specks clung to her teeth. She could use a brush.
The instant coffee tasted like dirt. It reminded Francesca of playgrounds, swings, the first time she'd pushed Sloane so high she'd squealed, "This is amazing! It's like I'm flying." Francesca had been so happy, and yet so sad at that. Her tear-ducts burned like fire.
Maybe 'a little something extra' wouldn't be the worst thing. It was going to be a long flight.
Stuffing her earbuds in, she turned the music up to eleven. The bottle of 'extra' was small; she drank it down in one gulp. In an hour, she'd probably want another. No, maybe it wasn't the worst thing at all.
Every so often, a hairy arm would tap on her shoulder to ask her about herself, to which she gave short, quipped answers.
"Where ya headed?" Cologne and stale breath hit Francesca at the same time.
Ha. What a conversation starter: 'Are you on the same long flight to the same international destination as me?’ Even if she'd had another flight planned for after, she wouldn't be telling a stranger about it.
"Livingston, Nevada." Was that a place?
"What do you do for a living?"
"Got laid off."
Fifteen minutes later, just as Francesca had begun to doze off, the rotund man bothered her once again. "Oh, how rude! I totally forgot to ask your name, mine's Cory."
"Charlotte." A woman's got to lie now and again.
"What kinds of things do you like to do?" he asked, leaning into her.
Francesca pressed as far back into her seat as she could. "I hate most things."
Cory stopped talking to her for a long while. Almost an hour, a nice nap, and two angry girl jams later, he tapped her again.
"Are you married?"
After glancing at her bare finger, she burst into silent tears. Cory turned away and curled into an in-flight pillow.
Twenty-three hours later, Cory stretched sweaty arms forward nearly punching Francesca. "What a flight!"
It was indeed.
Francesca's swollen cheeks probably looked covered in splattered burst blood vessels, not freckles. Sloane had loved how unusual it was for the Italian to be covered, while the sort-of Irish only had three moles on her entire body. They made a beautiful triangle Francesca had loved to trace on the underside of her left breast.
The plane had a semi-orderly line of people waiting to grab their bags from overhead and go on their way. Most seemed to be on vacation. When Francesca stopped to think about what she'd packed, it overwhelmed her.
A blank spot lived where the memory of her putting items in her suitcase should have been. Had she packed her favorite necklace?
Her fingers flew up to her neck. She sighed and leaned against the side of the polyester material–still on. Sloane had given her a key at the end of their second date. Before Francesca had crawled into bed that night, she'd hung it from the only free chain she'd had–a cheap and ugly thing that had eventually turned her neck green. After they'd replaced the chain, she'd occasionally forget to put it on in the morning. Guilt sawed at her for being forgetful.
Her purse always had headphones, her wallet, passport–much to Sloane's and her mother's worry–and gum. She popped some into her gummy mouth.
Sloane's possessions had come with her, which was a relief. Which possessions, however, were all wrong. Francesca wanted more: the dresses they'd worn at their commitment ceremony, the five rings Sloane used to wear, her bracelet, Sloane.
She broke away from her darkening thoughts. At least she'd remembered the perfume. Francesca enjoyed imagining the Strawberry Fields still clung to Sloane's favorite pink sweater. It didn't.
Like a scratch-and-sniff, it had dried up months ago. But Francesca didn't want to waste a drop by spraying it on the sweater again. Maybe being rolled up together would re-invigorate the smell.
Francesca shifted from one foot to the other. She wouldn't mind being off the plane.
Cory seemed unperturbed and as chatty as ever. Ignoring him turned out to be more difficult than expected, but imagining him as a chubby bee from a children's play helped immensely. His headband antennae smacked the top of the cramped plane; his wings hooked on the chairs. Sloane would have appreciated the imagery.
In desperate need of a good crack and massage, her back ached. Sloane had been the only one who'd ever been able to get the one knot under her shoulder blade out. Francesca's breath caught again. She wiggled her nose and rolled her eyes upward.
As she pulled her purple duffle bag from the overhead compartment, she wondered again if she'd made a colossal mistake. In the five minutes following that thought, logistics began to set in.
The apartment! Francesca had to call and pay her landlord, Timothy, a month in advance so it would still be there. She'd be back. Wouldn't she? Their life was there. Sloane's smell, her laughter; everything would be lost if Francesca didn't go home.
Was the airport an acceptable place to leave a car for an untold amount of time?
Finally, she trudged down the aisle towards fresh air and her smothering mother on weak muscles. She spent most of the trek to the baggage area practicing a smile. But the moment she saw Mama waving a silk scarf she'd had since dinosaurs had roamed the earth, Francesca dropped her bags and ran. Crouching into Mama's small arms, she sobbed.
Dozing on a large stone patio, Francesca stared out at an expansive valley and tried to shake off jet lag.
The too-white cushions were so plush, it was easy to forget almost anything but the view for a while. Mama owned a villa in Montepulciano, a little over two hours away from the Pisa airport. Francesca had not visited her yet. It had been in Sloane's three-year plan. Several things had been.
"Wake up." Mama broke through another windy road of Sloane. "You've been sleeping too long," she spoke in English. As Mama rarely spoke anything but Italian, using it was probably to make Francesca feel more comfortable.
They'd used both languages when Francesca was a child. However, when Mama had moved back to Italy, she'd stopped speaking English almost entirely. She enjoyed pretending to be the cute, fumbling little Italian woman who tried her best to speak other languages; that was hardly the case as Mama had learned to speak French and German fluently while they lived in New Mexico–nearly all of Francesca's childhood. Mama tried to learn multiple different Native American languages as well, but none of those took.
"It's fine, Mama. We can speak in Italian," Francesca assured her. Obligatorily, her lips curved up into what she hoped was a smile.
Mama's small shoulders drooped. "Thank goodness. Essie, I tell you, I'm not great at English anymore. I am good at cooking," she joked as she brought the subject back to why she had come outside in the first place. Aged hands, shades tanner than Francesca, held a large black tray as if she were a server. "Here, eat." Italians.
When Mama dropped the four plates of pasta in front of her on the wrought iron patio table, she beamed. A curl fell into her eye, but the wind made quick work of it. The wine bottle patterned apron Francesca had bought her for her birthday flew up. Mama pushed it down; her small hands slid over stains of cream and red near the pockets.
"Why aren't you eating?"
"You just sat it down. Oh, and I'm not hungry."
Her mother's eyes narrowed as her thick brows clenched together. "You're too skinny. Susan liked your curves. Eat, for her."
"Sloane," Francesca corrected but nodded.
Worrying with a string on the seam of her grey tank top, she stared at nails which used to be long and manicured. Sloane used to make fun of her for her obsession with them. Without her joking mockery, Francesca had bitten them to the quick and skinned the sides pink. She'd gotten her first pimple since middle school two months ago, and her hair fell limp–an extraordinary loss.
Everything about Francesca had lost its luster.
She and Sloane had first met in a grocery store checkout line. It had been through an off-the-cuff compliment about the natural black curls that hung down to the middle of her back. Francesca could still feel Sloane's hand graze the small of her back. If she hadn't already believed in love at first sight, when their eyes met, she'd have changed her tune. Francesca had almost blurted, "I love you," right then and there.
Then, the world had faded away, until only Francesca and a woman with porcelain skin, fiery hair, and pouty lips had remained.
"You have beautiful hair," Sloane'd said. Her own striking Irish red curls had been in a messy loop at the top of her head, bits of fuzz and baby hairs sticking out every which way. "I have always wanted hair like that, not this–" She'd wrinkled her forehead to look up and tug at a stray curl, cursing as it frizzed. Her white-blonde eyebrows had wriggled in a way Francesca would come to rely on to tell her how Sloane felt. "Mess."
She'd turned to go, a barely filled paper bag in hand, but Francesca never wanted her to leave.
"Wait. Can I–I mean, are you…?" She'd looked straight into Sloane's emerald eyes and composed herself. "Would you be interested in having coffee with me?"
Sloane had laughed and shaken her head, bringing a flare to Francesca's cheek, though her olive skin covered most of it. "Funny."
"Oh." Francesca had wished she could leave. "It's fine."
As if she'd been waiting for a punchline, Sloane's red eyelashes blinked a few times. "No, I laughed because I thought you were kidding."
"Can you two lovebirds move it along?" A woman in a jogging suit had tapped her foot. "I have ice cream in the cart, and my kid's soccer practice is over at 6:30. I really wanted to have a nice soak and sneak a few glasses of wine in before I have to pick him up.”
Francesca had tried to keep the grin off of her face before she swiveled back to Sloane. "Now? Later? Both?"
Though she'd turned down offers to dinner from two men and a woman only days ago, she'd sounded as though she couldn't get a date. Great. To top it off, her cart had been full of cat-lady style foods: frozen dinner meals, instant foods, poppable fruits, and–to her horror–jarred pasta sauce.
Sloane's face had lit up. "Both."
Francesca had fallen in love. And they still hadn't introduced themselves.
A cool breeze brought the scent of Mama's red wine lamb tomato sauce into focus. It reminded her she wasn't standing under unflattering bright light beside movie candy and batteries. The gut-punch that her Sloane wasn't there followed seconds later.
To top it off, Mama's slant on bolognese had been Sloane's favorite. Francesca shoveled the cooling pasta in without tasting it, feeling sicker with each bite. Her heart mimicked each tomato as they burst into her mouth. Their insides still felt like lava; Francesca could relate.
She couldn't escape the memories, even in Italy. Sloane's ghost was ever present, sitting beside her, clinging. Francesca let herself imagine a translucent Sloane waving at her.
"Hey baby, sorry it took me so long to make contact. Being a ghost sucks. Do you think we'll be able to make this whole dead thing work, you know like Patrick Swayze and Demi what's-her-last-name-now?"
She'd say it exactly like that. Francesca's smile was genuine as she started to vomit.
"O Dio Mio!"
Warm wind blew through an arched stone window. Francesca lay on a king-sized bed with five linen duvets in an ombre of dark grey to white surrounded by a mound of pillows. She waved Mama's shouts off, hoping her arm could be seen from within the comfy cave she'd hidden in.
Francesca had taken a quick shower, paying close attention to the areas in her hair where vomit had clung. Wet strands cut into her eyes as she tried to turn.
"O' way," muffled through the fabric.
"You got sick, Essie. All over the patio."
Kudos, Mama had such insight. Francesca almost mouthed off but was still suffocating herself. She began the process of rolling over. "Are you more worried about me or the patio?" she asked when she could breathe again.
Mama bristled.
Sitting up felt as though Francesca were underwater. She fully faced her small-framed mother who's hips barely breached the height of the pillow top mattress.
"I'm sorry, Mama. I know you just don't want your patio to get dirty." She tried to crack a smile, failed, and gave into one of the sighs that had been looming in the back of her throat since she'd agreed to get on the plane.
"Essie, my darling," Mama said, as she scrambled onto the bed. Even when she looked tiny, Francesca's mother was a glamorous woman. "Start from wherever you need to."
Mama's hand felt cool and clammy on Francesca's.
"I–Her name is Sloane, not Susan," she murmured, still hung up on Mama's slip up. "Okay?" Francesca nodded for Mama.
That was all she'd say on Sloane for the evening–though it was barely the afternoon. The time to shatter was upon her.
It must have been the next morning, nearly an entire day later, when Francesca awoke to the smell of cinnamon rolls and the usual sickness as she remembered the car accident in slow motion. Heat prickled her eyes as she curled up in a ball. She clenched her fists and calmed herself second by second; those were how she marked her progress. She considered one less second of pain a success.
By the time she could process the current day, she was transported to another morning of cinnamon rolls and sadness.
Warm icing had dripped from her finger as she'd gone to lick it off. Francesca hadn't left the bed in two days, tears and drool crusted in small circles on her pillow like chicken pox.
Kevin had broken up with her. She'd cried, not for the loss of a decent boyfriend, but because she'd had to tell her mother she was gay. As she'd bitten into the barely cooked dough, the words had come out. Muffled, she'd told Mama what she had assumed would be a shock.
Nodding, her mother had said, "Yes, yes. Another roll?" Oh.
A neighbor had come by later that day. Francesca remembered Mama being so proud to tell him Francesca had finally admitted it; they'd clinked tea glasses.
Francesca should have gone to Japan. She didn't have as many associations with it. But sushi would probably remind her of Sloane. They had also discussed at length the difference in clothing styles once, getting into a heated argument over the difference in lolita fashions. It had ended in an internet shopping spree. Mexico would remind her of their annual Día de Los Muertos party. Germany, Romania, Ireland, and anything in between, around, near, or far was out, too. They'd planned a year-long trip to Europe. There wasn't a place she could think of where she could escape. Her breath hitched.
A metal show at full capacity with deep bass thumped too loudly inside of her head–a feeling to which she'd become accustomed. Her jaw popped, as she called out to Mama. "What's that I smell?"
The door to her temporary bedroom swung open. Mama swooped in carrying a blue and white flower printed plate overflowing with cinnamon pastries smothered with liquid sugar.
"Eat," Mama instructed. Francesca appreciated her lack of comment on the dried snot decorating the front of her t-shirt and pillow. "Your body is empty," she said with a pointed look. "So, you need something."
"And sweets is what you chose? Not that I'm complaining." Francesca added, the roll already on its way to her mouth. Mama had good ideas once in a while. "Thank you for yest–"
"Hush. Another roll?" Francesca hadn't finished the first one. "When you finish, we'll go shopping."
Francesca smiled and coughed the first one down. "That was a bigger bite than I was expecting. Mama, you don't have to take me shopping."
She'd eaten half the next roll before Mama responded. "We've talked about this. You came with next to nothing, and I saw what you brought: pieces of different seasons wardrobes and random trinkets. Not much in there that will work for the heat. So we're going shopping. I'm going to buy you some new things. It's good to have a fresh start. Sloane would want that."
'You don't know what Sloane would want!' Francesca nearly shouted out loud. Her mother seemed to know Sloane pretty well whenever it suited her needs.
Instead of starting a fight, Francesca nodded. "You're right; I need new things. I don't have much to wear. Besides, I haven't seen any part of Italy since we visited when I was, what… fourteen?" Licking her lips, she sweetly told Mama to get out so she could get ready.
\When the door closed behind her, Francesca made no move to untangle herself from her fluffy cocoon.
A bell chimed off into the distance. Seven rings–seven a.m. No wonder she felt so grumpy and tired.
Her body shouted at her; she should be getting ready for bed, or maybe she'd already be tucked in–even after almost seventeen hours of sleep. Eleven months ago, she and Sloane would have been in their pajamas reading to each other. The sound of the city bell may cause her a lot of problems.
"Ready?" Mama's voice came through the open window. She had gone outside to pick fresh flowers.
Francesca decided not to answer, as she still hadn't started the process of getting out of the bed. Mama's humming was an ocean view; it comforted and grounded her as it reminded her she was only a mere speck in the world. Francesca never understood how a soft sound could do so much. Maybe it was the tune–something she could never place, but would never forget.
As it was one of maybe three outfits that made sense, she chose a white sundress and silver sandals for the early morning shopping day. It felt a little more Greek-vacation than Italian-life. Francesca only owned three pairs of shoes, of which she'd brought two. Her bag also revealed the one dress, one pair each of jeans and shorts, four tee shirts, and a bulky sweater. Besides her small wardrobe and the outfit she wore on the plane–the pajama pants she wore to bed each night, a tank top, and a jean jacket–she had enough underwear and socks for one week.
Damn. Her mother was right; she needed to go shopping.
At least Sloane's perfume had made it.
The flat cork soles of her sandals loudly flapped as she made her way out to the garden. Her mother was bent over collecting lavender.
"My, don't you look stunning? That's a nice outfit!" A pause. "Oh! I didn't even see the sandals–very cute, Es. How many did you bring? But, look how pale you are! Your freckles are like stars, so bright!"
Francesca had become so used to being compared to her fair-skinned Sloane she'd forgotten she was pale for an Italian.
"Mama, you know I don't go out much. But Sloane and I got plenty of vitamin D. And why is it bad that you can see my freckles? It's what makes me such a special Italian."
Francesca laughed at her comment, then smiled at the flashes that popped into her head: long car rides with candy wrappers filling the floorboards; cold, out-of-the-way waterfalls; filtered light streaming through high tree branches–branches that killed Sloane. Her eyes watered–every memory destroyed.
"Why the tears, my Essie?"
She did not want a heart-to-heart.
"Let's just go shopping."
The narrow road laid in front of them, winding like a vein. Francesca's mood had her sinking into a dark place.
She'd claw her way out of it, Mama said, as they drove to Sienna: "A good spot to shop."
During the fifty minute drive, the blue sky said, "Please smile.” Puffy clouds shaped themselves into magical animals that had Francesca wanting to call them out as she did when she was a child. Fields of flowers and grassy pastures were set to vivid, as their colors came alive. Fresh scents followed, begging her to give in to the beautiful day.
The warm air pleaded with her. “Just toss your head back. You're in a convertible, for goodness sakes."
In truth, it had been her mother who had said it all. But caught up in the scenery and sensations, they felt more concrete to Francesca than her sweet Mama.
Her hair whipped quickly and painfully around her face. Mama pointed to the glove box where a stack of scarves resided on top of the usual important paperwork and a mother-of-pearl flask.
Francesca fumbled as she attempted to wrap a large square of yellow-flowered white silk around her head. Her failure knotted the fabric and added a layer of nuisance.
"Show me later," she said. Francesca had not mentioned the flask. Too cute, her mother.
When they'd pulled into a nearly empty row of parking spots, Mama showed her how to use the scarf. But the moment she finished tying the knot, Francesca forgot what she'd just learned. Looking sleek and sophisticated with her new wrap, Francesca wore a smile for Mama as they walked through a glass door with a scrawled etching that read 'Marta's Boutique.'
"See? Beautiful, no? It's been ages since you've visited Sienna. You may not remember much except for photos. We’re near the Piazza del Campo; that's our next stop."
Francesca couldn't recall going into the store, or picking out clothes; she may not have. Still, she waited in a small changing room in her cream and white polka-dotted underwear and a warped off-white bra for another item of clothing to be handed to her over the door. Apparently, she wasn't to be trusted with them all at once.
Modeling each item seemed imperative.
Why? Because she wasn't trusted to pick out her wardrobe, that's why. Mama and the shop owner, Marta, did.
The first dress she tried on was impractical, long, blue chiffon. They loved it. Francesca only wanted a few nice shirts, a few pairs of shorts, a skirt or two, and one fancy dress because her mother went out to eat often.
After Francesca complained, they switched to slightly more appropriate clothing choices.
First up: a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved sweater. Impractical once again; it was hot outside, Francesca reminded them as if they were the visitors and she the resident.
"Okay, let me grab a few more pieces," Marta declared probably holding up her finger dramatically.
Her sandals squeaked as she ran around the store. Francesca could imagine Marta's round feet, which spilled out at every possible spot, gasp for air.
Tired of shopping, Francesca agreed to a few more. Possibly because they still hadn't found anything, possibly because she enjoyed the sound of metal sliding on metal as Marta found her size.
"She'll love it," Mama's voice slid under the door. "You'll love it," she finally addressed Francesca, as if just remembering she'd be the one wearing it.
It was the perfect tank top. Sloane would have picked it out for her, saying, "Francesca, it screamed you. I think the flowiness will make you happy, and red has always been your color." And Sloane would have been right, as she usually was when she picked Francesca's clothes out.
As soon as she stepped out, ready to announce she'd finally found something, Marta clapped her hands. "Oh, Essie. You look gorgeous."
Francesca no longer cared if Sloane would have loved it. Marta had called her Essie. She was done.
"Thanks," Francesca said through tight lips. Damn. The first time in a while she'd thought of Sloane without tears, and she had to leave. "Mama, let's go. I think I need a break; I'm a bit tired. How about some lunch?"
She had no idea what time it was.
Nodding, Mama smiled. "Of course, darling." She turned to Marta. "It was such a long flight; I'm surprised she's up today at all."
Francesca did not want to be, but she didn't have much of a choice.
"We will be back later, okay Marta?" Mama said.
After Mama and Marta said many goodbyes, air-kissed, and hugged so many times Francesca lost count, they were finally off.
Mama produced a letter from her purse before the glass door banged loudly behind them and swatted Francesca; it was not the first time. "What were you thinking? Marta will think you don't like her."
"I don't think I do."
"You hush." Mama smacked her again. Francesca wondered for the billionth time if she'd ever be allowed to read that letter. She'd stopped asking when she was eleven.
There had never been a day Mama hadn't had it with her–in her purse or under her pillow. The envelope always seemed fresh and new, but never had sharp edges; when she was small, she'd convinced herself it was a magical letter holding secrets only Mamas could know.
Being swatted by that damned letter had been the only 'punishment' she'd ever known.
"Okay." Francesca nodded. She figured if her mother didn't want the truth, she didn't have to give it to her. She'd been lying for months as it was.
Francesca's sandals heels were reminiscent of hooves on the stones. Click, clack, click, clack. Only things that weighed a ton should make such a racket. Her mother barely seemed to notice, lost in a blissful delusion. Francesca wondered what it would be like to be her. Men loved Mama–even when she didn't love them, her ability to pick up languages had always been first class, the only curls escaping from her perfect coif seemed to be for effect, and Mama was effortlessly beautiful. Francesca did wonder if being Mama's height might bother her.
Though an education had always been vital to her mother when it came to Francesca, she never worried about it for herself. Around intellectuals, at a gala or poetry reading–if Francesca were her mother–she may fret over every word that came out of her mouth; she may wonder if they knew or cared that she hadn't had a formal college education. As Mama, Francesca would have had a horrific divorce, causing her to question love, and a kid she had to raise on her own. It may have made her strong–strong enough to handle losing Sloane. Probably not, though.
After a too-long conversation about which pasta place Mama would take Francesca to eat, she chose Tony's–the first place she'd mentioned. The restaurant may have had another name, but her mother enjoyed name dropping when she knew anybody. It seemed she and Tony's mother, Alma Loreti, met at a wine tasting. They'd talked about ex-husbands and dating–a subject of great surprise to Francesca, as she didn't know her mother dated.
Most conversations ended up where mother's tend to, though: their children. Alma had four, but Mama only remembered Tony and Cecilia; "the other two" were off in Spain and America, so they didn't seem to warrant brain space. Though both were older than Francesca, Mama just called them The Loreti Children. She called anyone by their 'titles' if she forgot their names.
Francesca's stomach had begun grumbling at the mention of pasta, but when she smelled fresh rising yeast, her feet almost turned without her permission. Her mother smiled as she took a deep breath of the air.
"Delicious, no? Do you want to stop? I'm sure Lia has a few Zeppoles left." Is there anyone Mama doesn't know? More importantly, Zeppoles were one of Francesca's favorite desserts.
A picture window displayed baked goods stacked like Plinko pieces.
"If you insist," Francesca said. Despite her irritation, she grinned. Baked goods had that effect on her.
The sun streaked through the open door of the bakery. A shelving unit against the wall displayed various loaves of bread. Lia beamed when they came in, ready to serve her customers. Hints of lines creased around her eyes when she recognized Mama.
"Maria!" Lia came around the cement-topped counter with wide open arms. Her mint green strapless dress draped the floor. "It's been too long. And is this who I think it is? Maria, she looks just like you."
Though Lia's jet-black frizz was pinned back, it still managed to end up in Francesca's mouth as she strangled her with a hug. Francesca must have tensed, because Lia pulled back, her dark olive skin tinted pink. Francesca ignored Lia's embarrassment and thought about her own paleness again. It made her feel like a fraud of an Italian, especially with freckles that would have been more at home on Sloane's fair skin.
"Yes, it has been far too long. We mustn't let it go so long! An hour away is no excuse. And yes, yes, it is," Mama said with pride. Francesca wasn't much to be proud of at the moment: sad, alone, abandoned, angry, and–verging on–starving. "This is Francesca."
"I'm Lia. It's so very nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you. All good!" she added quickly.
Isn't that what you were supposed to say, a platitude? It wasn't as if she could tell Francesca Mama had bitched about her. And what should Francesca tell Lia when she'd heard nothing about her?
She chose: "It's nice to meet you too. I had to sneak in before lunch; it was impossible not to." She hoped her expensive teeth and compliment would make up for the lack of returned knowledge.
Lia laughed surprisingly heartily for such a slight woman. "The bread. That's its main purpose, really. I do sell it, mind you, but far less often. My regulars buy it, sure. Usually, though, people stop in because of its mouthwatering smell, and end up buying the sweets."
Francesca hated being a cliche; that hadn't stopped her before. "I suppose we're going to follow the trend. I was hoping to grab a few Zeppoles. Mama says you make them, and in San Francisco, they only have decent ones. Please tell me you have some left?"
"I do, indeed." Lia produced a baker's dozen of Zeppoles before Francesca could decide how many she wanted–nine or ten. "Powdered sugar, I assume?"
"You assumed right." Francesca hoped Mama didn't mind paying. She hadn't remembered to exchange any of her money. Damn.
Lia more than 'dusted' the baked goodies with the cocaine sweetener. Francesca's mouth watered, lunch forgotten. "Those look like perfection."
"They are," Lia said. "I mean, they're my grandmother's recipe, so they are heaven. I'm not bragging about myself."
"It would be okay if you were." Mama laughed. "They are the best Zeppoles in Italy." She took out her money without glancing at Francesca.
Okay, she didn't mind. That meant they could discuss it, and so many other things, over lunch.